


A Boy's Treehouse Is His Castle

by blue_fjords



Series: Summer Realm [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coming of Age, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fjords/pseuds/blue_fjords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from "You & Me, Kings of the Summer Realm" (Jensen coming of age in Texas in the '90s).  Originally posted in July of 2010.  Please take note of the underage warning; they're 13/14 and 17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Boy's Treehouse Is His Castle

It was Misha's idea, of course. Most of their ideas seemed to be Misha's, which was fine with Jensen, since Misha had the least lame ideas ever.

Jensen picked the spot, after much internal debate. He made a list of pro's and con's for various locations in his spiral notebook during social studies. The copse of trees behind Misha's house was the clear winner, with "no parents" being at the top of the pro list, far outweighing that they'd each have to walk into the woods a bit to get there. Jensen's backyard had easy access to lemonade, but if they built there, they'd have to deal with Jensen's family, too.

He made another list in Spanish class of all the supplies they would need. If he left this stuff to Misha, they'd have to build their fort out of bubblegum wrappers and toothpicks. Although, knowing Misha, that would actually work.

When the bell rang at the end of the day, Jensen was the first one out the door. He practically flew to the curb. The Babe Magnet was just rounding the corner, blaring a chorus of "Big Girls Don't Cry." Jensen rolled his eyes, but hoisted himself through the passenger window when Misha slowed. He immediately turned the radio down.

"Dude, I have it all figured out," he said, rifling through his notebook to his lists. "We can get the supplies and shit from my dad's toolbox. And my uncle works at Edlund's Lumberyard – we could get some planks and stuff for free! Wanna go now?"

Misha raised his eyebrows at him. "You haven't wasted any time."

Jensen flushed. "We don't have to start it today," he mumbled. "It's a … it's a weekend project … if we're bored."

"No, we'll go today. How do I get to this lumberyard?"

Jensen watched the older boy as Misha drove them through town. School had started six weeks ago, and he was beginning to suspect that Misha didn't like it very much. He was quieter. Jensen frowned. 'Subdued,' that's the word his mother would use. And though Jensen had been a little worried that Misha would suddenly decide that spending his free time with a middle schooler was putting too much of a crimp in his style, Misha himself had suggested picking Jensen up after school every day, and then this idea of the fort.

Misha's moodiness extended to the lumberyard visit. Jensen found himself doing all the talking, which, okay, it _was_ his uncle, but he also had to small-talk the owner, the receptionist and the dude driving the little forklift. All while Misha wandered the stacks of planks like he'd never seen a piece of wood before. Jensen was anxious to get going long before he slammed the trunk closed on their mismatched scraps of lumber.

Misha whistled tunelessly along to the oldies' station on the way back to their street while Jensen fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt.

"Um, Misha?" he asked as they approached his house. He should have paid attention to the Oprah Show when his mom had it on. Surely she had done some kind of show about talking to people who didn't want to talk back. That was her shtick. "Uh …" Crap, now Misha was looking annoyed. "Stop at my house so I can get the toolbox."

Jensen went flying forward as Misha slammed on the brakes, his seatbelt and the palms of his hands preventing him from going through the glass.

"Sorry," Misha muttered as Jensen gave him an incredulous look.

"It's fine; I don't need my head."

He waited, but Misha made no comeback, no zinger, no teasing remark about Jensen being a butthead and therefore not in any danger. Misha just looked out the windshield and drummed his fingers.

"I'll meet you at your house," Jensen said finally, and shimmied out the window. He watched Misha drive away, his stomach churning.

He tried to shake off his uneasiness as he tossed his backpack into his room, and raided the kitchen for Capri-Suns and fruit roll-ups before heading to the garage.

"Jensen!" his mother called to his retreating back. He paused, shifting the cold juice pouches in his hands.

"Yeah, ma?"

She stood in the doorway of the garage and frowned at the purloined snacks. "You're spending an awful lot of time playing with that strange boy."

"Geez, ma, we're not playing! We're building a fort." Her eyes narrowed at his tone and he hastened to add, "I mean a treehouse. It's really … nice. And safe."

"Hmmph. Just you be back in time for dinner, you hear me?" She was already turning away. "And don't lose any of your father's tools, you know he'll raise holy hell."

"Yes, ma'am!" he called after her. He quickly filched a coffee can full of nails down off the shelf and dragged out the toolbox. His eyes lit on an old wheelbarrow, and he dumped all of his treasures into it and headed for Misha's house.

The Babe Magnet sat all by its lonesome in Misha's driveway. Jensen rapped sharply on the trunk above the lock and it sprung open. Misha didn't appear while Jensen transferred wood into his wheelbarrow. He paused halfway through to haul one load down the path behind Misha's house to the little copse of trees he'd picked out before returning to the Magnet. Still no sign of Misha. Jensen scowled and kicked at a back tire. _Misha should add some air to these shitty things. I don't want to die._

He stripped off his t-shirt and loaded the rest of the wood, then hesitated, eying Misha's front door. He'd never actually been inside Misha's house. He went so far as to step onto the path leading to the front door before he changed his mind, grabbed the wheelbarrow and pushed it down the path.

_Loser! Loser!_ Misha was his best friend. They'd spent every day together over the summer. Every day. Just because school had started…

He dumped the wood in a large pile and looked at the trees. He hadn't a fucking clue how to make a fort. Or treehouse. Misha had said he wanted it off the ground. But Misha wasn't here, now, was he? He scowled, scratched at a scab on his knee, and decided to just pound some planks together and go from there.

So what if Misha didn't like school. He shouldn't take it out on _Jensen_. They weren't even in the same school! Jensen couldn't do anything about that, except to grow older. 

"It's not like school's a fucking picnic for me," he told a squirrel. The squirrel ran away. Sure, Jensen had friends. He'd lived here his whole life. He knew lots of people. But none of them were anything like Misha. None of them laughed at all his jokes, told him all their secrets, and made him feel like he was their favorite. All those other people were dull and gray. Misha was every color in the rainbow, and several dozen Jensen had never seen before.

_Pound, pound, pound._ Jensen fished out another nail. It slid in his slick fingers before he caught it and held it firm. Texas was sweltering in the throes of an Indian Summer, and Jensen was really starting to wish he'd avoided all this mess and suggested a trip to Wendigo Pond instead of getting all excited about the fort. Treehouse. _Whatever._

It was going to take forever to build this thing alone. And why was he doing it alone, anyhow? This was Misha's idea. This was going to be a place just for them. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and held the hammer over another nail.

"Hey."

Jensen started at the sound of the voice and the hammer slipped in his hands, coming down hard on his thumb.

"Fuck!" he swore. His thumb _throbbed_.

"Shit, Jen." Misha crowded right up behind him and grabbed his hand, despite his glare.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he spat out. "I thought this was too …" his voice trailed off into a strangled gulp as Misha raised his hurt hand and kissed his thumb. Jensen watched, jaw dropping, as Misha sucked his thumb into his mouth.

It felt … wet. And soft, and warm, and God, Misha was staring at him. His tongue was curled around Jensen's thumb and he was _staring_ , his big blue eyes filling Jensen's sight.

"You're so …" Jensen started and lost his train of thought as Misha's face darkened. He let the thumb drop from his mouth.

"Go ahead, Jen. Say it. Call me a freak." He glared at Jensen, hands on hips, and Jensen took a step back before stiffening his knees.

"What are you talking about? _I'm_ the one who's mad here. You don't get to be mad!" He thrust his finger in Misha's chest. Misha bared his teeth and Jensen thought for a wild moment that he was going to bite his finger off in a gruesome parody of the thumb-kiss.

"You're going to tell me how to feel now? That's just peachy. Or am I allowed to say that?"

"What the fuck's your problem, man? You said you wanted to do this –" he gestured broadly at the half-assed start to the fort, treehouse, _what-fucking-ever_ "– but then you went off to sulk and _left me_."

His voice cracked horribly, and he turned away, face flaming, to seize another plank and pound it rigorously into place.

"Jensen." Misha's hand landed heavily on his shoulder and he snapped, shoving back. They both toppled over, Misha with a surprised grunt, and Jensen took advantage of his shock to pin him to the ground. It didn't last long, as Misha had four years, several inches and at least ten pounds on him. He shoved back, but Jensen tangled his fingers in Misha's shirt and they went rolling across the clearing together. Jensen's back collided with a sharp-edged rock and he howled with pain.

"What, what happened?" Misha gasped, scrabbling off him. Jensen glowered at him, blinking back tears, and tackled Misha to the ground again. They wrestled for a few minutes, but it was a losing proposition for Jensen – until he kneed Misha in the nuts.

Misha rolled off him, clutching his groin and muttering expletives. Jensen laid on his side in the grass, catching his breath and trying to ignore the pain in his back.

"That's against the rules!" Misha wheezed.

"Thought you didn't care about rules," Jensen huffed. Misha laughed, a bitter sound, and Jensen pushed himself up into a sitting position and stared. "Dude, what the fuck is up with you? I don't get it."

_Please, please, please, don't say it's something I'll understand when I'm older_ , Jensen thought.

Misha groaned and flopped onto his back. He whispered something that sounded like "mmmhhhrrhhr," causing Jensen to crawl closer, until he was looking down at Misha's face.

"I hate it here," Misha whispered, and Jensen jerked away as if burnt, his heart flip-flopping. "Jen." Misha's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him down into an awkward sprawl on Misha's chest. "You know I don't mean you."

"But I hate it here, too," Jensen lied. Misha snorted.

"Don't kid yourself. You're a Texan. You'll always love Texas."

"Well if that's how you feel about it, why don't you leave?" He shoved at Misha's chest, taking a vicious delight when Misha winced. "Fuck you, just take the Babe Magnet and go."

"Stop pushing me, dammit!" Misha roared, and Jensen froze momentarily. He'd never heard Misha raise his voice like that. Misha took advantage of his temporary paralysis and rolled them over, the breath leaving Jensen's lungs with an "oof" as Misha held his wrists up above his head, pinning them to the ground. "I don't 'hate' Texas," Misha snarled. "I hate always being the freak, okay?"

Their breath was loud and harsh in the late afternoon sun. Jensen's chest slowly stopped heaving and the lines on his forehead smoothed. As he looked up into dark blue eyes, he realized he could see right into Misha, past the jokes and randomness and confidence he always displayed, and find the real Misha. Misha was all those things, but more.

"I don't think you're a freak," he said quietly. "I think you're the best."

Misha laughed weakly and released his wrists, laying his head down on Jensen's chest and closing his eyes. _I really, REALLY, should've watched the Oprah_ , Jensen thought, and gingerly raised a hand to pat Misha on the back. He congratulated himself for choosing the right move as he felt Misha's body relax against him. Only now a strange heat was beginning to pool in his stomach, and for one crazy second, he wondered what it would be like if Misha kissed him again, but not on the thumb this time. He squashed the thought.

"Misha?"

"Ergmmmm."

"I don't really know how to make a treehouse."

Misha laughed again, less shaky this time, and pushed himself off the ground.

"Come on," he said, extending his hand. "You are blessed to be in the presence of a master craftsman."

It took them a week to build the fort/treehouse ("Castle," Misha declared it, and the single name stuck), complete with a hanging ladder that they could draw up after them, although they could both haul themselves up just by gripping a lower branch. It was the perfect distance off the ground for Jensen. They decorated the inside with classic movie monster pictures they'd ripped from the October issue of some magazine Misha's mom subscribed to, and Misha even found a couple of cast-off beanbag chairs by the side of the road. With liberal application of duct tape, they were good as new.

It was the ideal place to stretch out, side by side, and swap outrageous stories about the characters on the walls. They could spend whole weekends camped out at the Castle, huddling together beneath old blankets and an Army surplus sleeping bag as the temperature finally dropped. 

And though Jensen didn't think that school got any better for Misha, with the Castle, things were a lot easier to bear.


End file.
